The sun is a vague smudge of light behind the white whiteness of heavy fog. It’s trying to heat the cool mist of morning into hazy humidity that will make my world a droopy, wilted mess by high noon, with the air close and sweltering until the deep dark of night.

​But for now, my sweatshirt still feels good, a barrier against the dampness that clings and chills. The words aren’t etymologically related, but I think the mist adds mystery to the world as it mutes noises to a muffled whisper.

But not all noises. Farmer Neighbor’s rooster is -abruptly- awake.

And loud.

Maybe I’ll count his proclamations this morning, just for a while, to give credit where credit is due. This barnyard fowl has a knack for exuberantly greeting the day. But, no. I stop counting at nine in about as many minutes because the counting is even more distracting than the crowing. ​

Two carriages appear along the road, barely visible, emerging from unseen realms, and I wonder if the drivers feel like cloud riders, skimming along as they are, in mist and growing glory. A blue bird whistles, concealed in a tree along the line fence, and I remember Dad and his trademark call as he scattered a few meal worms in his feeder along the wall. He loved “his” bluebirds, and now I love mine.

The farm is waking up.

The cows were milked hours ago, but now the barnyard pauses for its daily interlude of stillness while the family gathers in the big farmkitchen for a cooked breakfast, always eggs, before the older children prepare for school. I hear their voices as three miniature adults climb over the gate and hurry along the field lane in matching shirt and dresses, forest green today, carrying their noon meal in sturdy Coleman coolers, the same ones they used last year. (No superhero lunch boxes on Hickory Lane, but Little Joe might have a hero, someone he looks up to and admires for what he does, someone who is his role model for life...he calls him "Da.")

The rooster continues to crow intermittently. Boisterously. Gates rattle, and someone leads the driving horse and her colt to the pasture. I hope I never forget that colt, running through the misty pasture like the memory of a left-behind dream that I want to go back and finish. His mom is more cautious of the barely visible terrain, and she paces nervously along the fence while he makes another loop then collapses for a nap.

Real world noises occasionally float through the mist to my unwilling ears - trucks using jake-brakes, tractors powering silo-filling blowers, motorcycles roaring along the main road like highway hummingbirds, small but fierce and flashy, (and... often a little pushy.)

I’d rather hear the rustle-fluster of a flock of pure white pigeons erupting off the corn crib roof,

or the honking racket of disoriented geese wheeling over the porch, the meadow, the neighbors’ fields, and back again, as if their GPS service is hindered by the heavy clouds, ​

​or the low insistent call of the cows, ready to graze the morning away if only someone would open the gate. Soon.

The sun is persistent, rising higher, burning wild and beautiful behind the mist, the meadow tree.

​It won’t be long now.​

I am drawn to my garden. Every bloom seems to be leaning toward morning, waiting in expectation for the glory to be revealed.

This huge moonflower opened last night as dusk fell. Some moment, in the deepening shadows, it unfurled its white wings; now its face turns east. By midday, it will bend toward the earth; its bloom will collapse inward like an empty hand.

​But for this hour, as it waits for glory, it is glorious.

As are the Morning Glories, rightly named, of course, because they too flourish, bright and radiant in the morning light. But upon closer examination, I find they seem, also, to contain glory. Each flower glows from within as if a tiny light illumines the richly colored corolla.

Apparently, they are designed in such a way as to capture the sun’s glory and fling it out for their brief and blazing lives.

​Only a day to shimmer and shine.

Or less than a day, since the cows, coming by,paused a bit too long beside the fence.

Munch.

Chew.​​Ruminate.

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?Tell me what is it you plan to doWith your one wild and precious life?Mary Oliver, from “The Summer Day”

“When all is said and done, spring is the main reason for “Wow.” Spring is crazy, being all hope and beauty and glory. She is the resurrection. Spring is Gerard Manley Hopkins, ‘The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil.’” Anne Lamott, from her book, Help, Thanks, Wow: The Three Essential Prayers.

...like shining from shook foil.

It would be hard to miss the “Wow!” of spring here on Hickory Lane. Even if I was blind, I could hear it singing around me from the throats of fully joyful song sparrows and loud-whistling orioles. If I was deaf, I could smell spring wafting around me - the spicy fragrance of a newly opened iris, the heavy sweetness of lily of the valley, the mouthwatering announcement that I’ve trampled on a stem of spearmint tea, …everything exudes “Wow.”​

This spring, I’ve been thinking about “new” and wondering how we decide what’s new. I once read a book called, “Old Songs in a New Café,” a memoir type book of essays from the life of author Robert James Waller. (I just pulled it from the shelf…maybe I’ll reread that one.) The title has resurfaced in my brain a few times, and I’ve wondered why he chose it. (Why not New Songs in an Old Café? I think the word picture works equally well in both directions.)

Spring is like this too - old songs – same old song sparrow song, same old noisy robin racket at dusk- in the new café that is Spring 2017. Or, I could say that spring is new songs-new migratory birds arriving (Hooray for oriole, killdeer, brown thrasher, eastern kingbird, catbird- all new birds on my May list) in the old café that is spring which comes around every year, regular as rain…as faithful as a 15-year-old migrating through the kitchen after soccer practice. And all the loveliness of "new" brings me great joy.

​But spring is also rose thorns piercing through my gloves and lodging in my fingers. Spring is aching muscles and a sore back. Spring is late frosts and mud, mud, mud. Spring is deer ticks and poison ivy.

And there’s more, because, in the middle of all the Wow and not-so-wow of spring, I’m also living my life, which, it turns out, can distribute hard days in any season. So, I need reminders- to watch for the Wow, whatever else may be happening.

​Maybe you need those reminders too....Here's what I've noticed recently as I’ve been watching for the Wow, for the new that springs up around me in the old café that is my life.

New colored leaves on same old trees,

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New boots (sweet!) on tired old feet!

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New varied hue in a worn-out shoe,

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Signs of someone new in my same old pasture view. (and, cow photobomb!)

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New splash of orange that I know I did not seed here,

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New pair of tweeters in a fixed-up old beater.

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Shiny new iris, from my dear old aunt,

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New crop of buttercups, old fence, slant.

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But with all the Wow of spring, life continues, and life can be hard.

​And some days I forget to watch for the Wow.

I might be surrounded by birdsong, inhaling deep draughts of rose breeze,but I don't even notice because I’m...-thinking through a hard piece,-trying to find my way back to truth when I’ve heard a lie. I might be...-wondering how long a situation will continue, -doubting my ability to endure…and then God shows up with a reminder that I cannot ignore, as happened on a particularly difficult day last week.

​Yes, there were a thousand yellow rose petals scattered along the garden’s edge like fairy confetti, but I overlooked them...

until I saw that one reminder, from the One, lying on my path. I couldn’t ignore its beauty or its message for me. Wow.

I remembered the verse with which I had started the day:

Psalm 62: 8Trust in (God) at all times, O people. (O Brenda.)Pour out your heart before Him.God is a refuge for us.

I had started my morning standing on that truth, but as the day passed, my thoughts wandered far from those words. A single rose petal drew me back to my Place of refuge, to the certainty of being remembered by the One who urged me to "pour out my heart."

I’d like to say I camped there for the rest of the day, but no.Life is complicated, and…God is faithful.

​I must go up to the trees again, to the lonely trees and the sky,And all I ask is a tall pine and the chance to hear her sigh.And the breeze kiss and a soft mist, and the birch leaves quaking,And a golden hue on the meadow view with a fall day waking.

"the lonely trees and the sky..."

"and a golden hue on the meadow view..."

I must go up to the trees again for the call of the mountainsideIs a wild call and clear call that may not be denied;And all I ask is an autumn day and the white clouds playingAnd the leaf path and the chipmunk’s laugh, and the maples, swaying.

"and the leaf path..."

"..and the maples, swaying."

I must go up to the trees again, to the lonely, wandering life,To the fawn’s way, and the dove’s way, where the thrush plays a haunting fife.And all I ask in the peace of pause is the whispering Presence,And the sweet perfume, the remembered joy of the long hike’s essence.

“And every year there is a brief, startling moment When we pause in the middle of a long walk home and Suddenly feel something invisible and weightless Touching our shoulders, sweeping down from the air: It is the autumn wind pressing against our bodies; It is the changing light of fall falling on us.” Edward Hirsch from Wild Gratitude

It is the changing light of fall falling on us.

Thank you, Edward Hirsch for giving us these words, these reasons for wild gratitude on a cold autumn day. HumminB.

What is this life if, full of care,We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughsAnd stare as long as sheep or cows...W.H.Davies

The nosey cows, I call them. I take a walk past the meadow, and I suddenly become the focus of attention for a pastureful of (very large) creatures. Very curious creatures. I had a minor vehicle accident once involving a fence...around midnight...and when I got out of the van to figure out what to do next, eleven black and white observers were lined up along the fence to help me think about it. I told them to go away, but they don't give up easily. They like to stand and stare. They don't blink.They don't look away. They simpy stare. Who knows what they are seeing? Who knows what they are hearing? Who knows what they are thinking?

There are days when it does me good to do as the poet suggests. I need to take time to stand and stare.

Without blinking.Without looking away.Simply stand and stare. Who knows what I might see? Who knows what I might hear? Who knows what I might end up thinking about?

The poet answers his own question a few lines later, tells us what sort of life we have when we don't have/make/take time to pause:

...a poor life this, if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare.

Try it sometime. It's harder than you think. Take time to stand and stare as long as the cows. Only, do not get into a staring contest with them. You will never win.

It was a perfect day for mountain hiking, alone. The air had warmed considerably to about seventy degrees from early morning lows near forty. The breeze kept any bugs away, but I really don't think the little critters have figured out the hot/cold/hot/cold spring we've been having, so they were a non-problem all around. The birds seemed exuberantly thankful for a balmy afternoon, and the trees were alive with their songs, like beautiful background music on continuous shuffle.

Indigo bunting

This jaunty little fellow greeted me almost at once; he seemed to haunt my path, disappearing and reappearing thoughout the afternoon. By the time I parked my bicycle back in the garage, my bird list totaled 29, and I'm not sure I remembered all of them. My pick-of-the-day was a pileated woodpecker whose long shadow preceeded him down the mountain, giving me a literal heads up that something big was on the way. What a treat! Some of the early wildflowers have taken their bow for this year, but the show goes on, and new cast members appear as the weeks pass. The valley meadows are bursting with buttercups, but timid beauties like this delicate blue-eyed grass add their own splendor in small places.

Blue-eyed grass

I walked and walked and walked. I sat. I thought long thoughts or no thoughts at all. (Is that possible??) I fell asleep. I listened to the noisy quiet, to wind rustle and bird song. I stood perfectly still for minutes at a time. Eventually, I breathed deeply and began to look for a writing rock. A poem had been steeping in the back, back, back of my mind since my last long hike, three long weeks ago. My life and mind had been scrambled and noisy, and the words had been lingering so long, I was afraid they would dry up and disappear. I found a just right rock and penned (actually penciled...) my central Pennsylvania mountains version of John Masefield's poem, Sea Fever.

Tree Fever

I must go back to the trees again, to the lonely trees and the sky,And all I ask is a long path, with a sitting rock nearby.And the wren's joy and the wind's song and the aspen quaking,And a green dress on the shy trees, edged in greeen lace, shaking.

...and the bloom scent...

I must go back to the trees again, to the carefree hiking life,To the squirrel's way and the fern's way, where the thrush plays a lonely fife,And all I ask is a place to write with my thoughts upended,And an empty page with a pencil, sharp, when the sun's descended.

And all I ask is a long path...

I must go back to the trees again, for the call of new life, restored,Is a loud call and a clear call that cannot be ignored.And all I ask is a breezy day with the tall trees sighing,And the warm rays and thebloom scent, and the red tails, crying.

Author

I'm finding my way beyond the maze of the "middle" years (if I'm gonna be 100 and something someday...) ​living life as a country woman who is a writer, gardener, wife, mom, nature observer, teacher,and most of all a much loved child of God.